


Rest

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied Relationships, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John receives the phonecall, he finds himself almost surprised that he hasn't been sent a telegram instead, with the terse and dramatic message that Sherlock is 'prostrate with exhaustion' or some similar Victorian affliction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

When John receives the phonecall, he finds himself almost surprised that he hasn't been sent a telegram instead, with the terse and dramatic message that Sherlock is 'prostrate with exhaustion' or some similar Victorian affliction. As it is, the content of the succinct conversation is to a similar effect. Sherlock has been overseas for a month now, on a highly important and secretive case. John hadn't even been told where Sherlock was going, and for Sherlock himself not to share the information conveys the gravity of the situation, far more effectively than Mycroft's presence to request it. Of course John is starting to suspect that sometimes, just sometimes, Mycroft is simply visiting, but according to the rules of the game feels that he ought to make up some pressing matter as an excuse. Sherlock's response to this case, after all, had been far more serious than anything John's seen before. Not that John knows what the case was even now. All he has to go on is the knowledge that he'll be flying out to Toronto tomorrow morning because Sherlock is there and isn't in a state to make the return journey unassisted. Still, the situation doesn't seem as dire as the message might first suggest because he receives a text message not long after that instructs him to pick up some duty free cigarettes on his way out there.

The next day one of Mycroft's ominous black cars picks John up and takes him to Heathrow. He's given spending money, both Stirling and Canadian dollars, a credit card in his own name, a Blackberry, with his electronic boarding pass already loaded and the polite suggestion that he may want to go directly through security. His passport, which he's certain he packed and has been in his bag the entire time, is handed back to him by one of the two smartly dressed security men who accompanied him on the car journey, just before he exits the vehicle. John takes them at their word and heads straight to security, where he's ushered through to the express lane, told that he doesn't need to remove his laptop from his bag, sets off the metal detector and still is nodded through. It's only then, while consulting the map to find the duty free cigarettes that it occurs to him to look at his boarding pass. He's travelling Business Class of course and a quick look through his bag produces a power adaptor so that he can use his laptop in-flight without worrying about the battery. Similarly, he already has a pen and a notepad that he doesn't remember packing, and the first page of the notebook bears a message in Mycroft's own hand:

_Don't let Sherlock throw anything off the CN tower. He can be assured that the impact physics will work just as expected._

_M_

_P.S. Eiswein sweets will be very much appreciated upon your return._

Once upon a time the note would have irritated John, just like the entirety of the presumption that he'd travel across the Atlantic to just to bring Sherlock home. These days he's learned not to let it bother him quite so much, especially since he can trust that Mycroft will look to his convenience first, before sending him off on that kind of errand. John is a little worried but tells himself that he needn’t be because Sherlock can take care of himself well enough on his own.

Unfortunately, John can't quite hold on to that attitude once he's on the plane. He's finds himself wondering just what sort of a state Sherlock's really in if he's not well enough to travel. Perhaps he's sustained some sort of injury, perhaps he really is prostrate with exhaustion, lying in some hotel room with a floor ankle deep in telegrams. One bad film and two documentaries about social networking later, John still isn't certain if he ought to panic. He's still weighing up his options as the plane lands.

By the time he's come through immigration he's distracted by more immediate problems. He doesn't know where Sherlock is and certainly doesn't know how to get there. Then his phone rings and Mycroft's assistant directs him to a car waiting for him outside. The heat already has him sweating and he's so glad to get into the air-conditioned car that he forgets to ask her any pertinent questions before she hangs up. At least the driver seems to know where he's going, and in the back of the car John falls asleep rather quickly.

When he wakes there is a jiffy bag on the set next to him, in the still moving car. The envelope is addressed to him, again in Mycroft's own handwriting. Inside he finds a fob, a key and two metro passes. Presumably then the fob and key belong to Sherlock's hotel, not that they finally come to a stop outside a hotel at all. They drive slowly pass a rather lovely house with a signboard that proclaims it to be something or other inn but don't stop there. Instead they come to a stop by an apartment building. The driver says nothing and John takes that his cue to get out. His fob opens the main doors and before he can think to ask the concierge any questions, his phone beeps again, revealing a text with a number, presumably of an apartment. Nobody stops him or even really looks in his direction as he makes his way to the lifts. Presumably the first two numbers of the four indicate a floor number so John presses the appropriate floor button for lack of anything better to do. When he steps out of the lift it's easy enough to find the number that he's been given and he hesitates for a moment, wondering if he ought to knock first rather than try the key. Still, if he was meant to knock then presumably they wouldn't have given him a key at all, and perhaps Sherlock is intending to meet him there later. Quite why Sherlock might do that might be for any number of reasons so John doesn't even try to speculate.

Opening the door, John finds himself stepping onto the hardwood floors of a decent sized apartment. He's setting his bag down when the view catches his attention. The balcony doors open onto a dazzling view of Lake Ontario. The sky so clear that John supposes that, if he squints, he might easily be able to see across to the States. He's so captivated by the view that it takes him a moment to realise that there's a figure stood on the balcony already. Sherlock's dark curls are unmistakable, as is his lean figure propped up against the railing, or the slim fingers that flick ash carelessly from a cigarette. Sherlock doesn't turn as John approaches the balcony doors, though he evidently knows that John is there, and it gives John some time to study the figure before him. The summer heat doesn't really lend itself to Sherlock's usual attire which might explain what he's currently wearing. John has seen Sherlock wearing jeans before but they've always been slim fitting and tailored, just like everything else he wears. Today, on the other hand, they're slightly loose to the point that suggests that they might, in fact, be shop bought rather than specifically made for him. Similarly, he's wearing a t-shirt that is evidently too big for him, and the overall impression almost suggests to John that Sherlock may well be wearing somebody else's clothes.

“You're jealous.” Sherlock announces as John steps out into the balcony.  
“What? No, of course not. I don't- Oh.”  
“Precisely. No reason for it of course.”  
“Right.”  
“I haven't been staying here with someone else. I've only just arrived myself.”  
“Where...?”  
“Quebec. Francophone diplomacy is _not_ my strong point.”  
“I didn't think any diplomacy was.” John laughs.  
Sherlock smiles ruefully.  
“Is your case finished then?”  
“Completely. The Québécois can cede from the union now for all I care.”

John doesn't ask for details. Sherlock is bound to share them if he chooses to.

“You were worried.”  
“I had a phone call at half ten last night to tell me that you weren't in a fit state to come home.”  
“I wasn't.”  
“You look...” John peers at Sherlock and is disturbed to note the tired sag of his features.  
“I'm tired, John. I don't _want_ to-” Sherlock cuts himself off and takes a drag of his cigarette.  
“You don't want to go back yet?”  
“Not yet.” Sherlock admits. “I'd just like to... rest for a while.”  
“That's fine.”  
“Is it? Don't you have to leave me soon?”  
“And get back to work? I doubt it. Mycroft will have arranged it all.”

Sherlock smiles at that and it's a distinctly soft, sentimental, expression.

“He’ll being wanting sweets of course. Those icewine ones that they sell in the tourist shops. And we can get him some of that maple butter. He likes that as well.”  
“Right.”

John grins. Perhaps it's due to the exhaustion, perhaps it's simply a whimsy but Sherlock manages to make the entire situation sound like a mere shopping trip on Mycroft's behalf.

“How long have you been here?”  
“Two days. I didn't make much sense until this afternoon or I would have...”  
“You were going to call me?”

The thought warms John inside, reminding him that while Sherlock may claim to practice a distinctly blunt form of non-attachment, he's yet to achieve it in regards to their association.

“Yes.”

The directness of the answer surprises John. Usually Sherlock isn't very good at expressing anything even remotely resembling emotional connection. Perhaps, so John supposes, exhaustion does to Sherlock what it does to most men and strips him of his defences.

Sherlock laughs.  
“What?”  
“You are transparent.”  
John frowns.  
“I see wheels within wheels, plans within plans.” Sherlock continues. “I've always thought that it might be wonderfully relaxing to be a Guild Navigator. You just lie around in your vat of spice and belch out the occasional inter-dimension wormhole.”  
“And flap your vestigial arms about?”  
“Precisely. Nothing to do all day but think. And wonder what my brother's going to do about this Golden Path malarkey.”  
“Does that make him...? I can't remember what any of the characters are called.”  
“Not the one you're thinking of. If Mycroft existed he'd be something else entirely.”

There's fondness in Sherlock's tone, and admiration. John's learnt to read between the lines when it comes to the brothers but this unguarded affection is surprising even to him.

Sherlock smirks. “Of course we Harkonnen have to stick together.”

 

The little kitchenette of the apartment is well-stocked, John discovers, and all evidence suggests that Sherlock has been living off convenience food for the last two days. There's a half eaten salad in the fridge, two protein bar wrappers in the bin and a rather large supply of iced tea cans. Sherlock seems content to curl up on the couch with his laptop on but he doesn't seem to be looking at anything.

“What are we going to do for dinner?”  
“Sushi?”  
“If you like. I can go and get...” John has no idea where he'd have to go to get sushi or if there even is anywhere close by.  
“Order it. They'll deliver.” Sherlock holds the laptop out to John.

The ease with which Sherlock relinquishes control of things worries John. Even in small increments Sherlock is always clear that he is delegating dull work or dismissing it entirely. Right now he appears to be responding as best he can because further effort is too much for him. Navigating ordering online isn't too difficult and by the time John's managed it he realises that he has Sherlock's feet in his lap.

“I'm not moving.”  
“I wasn't going to ask you too.” John smiles and sets the laptop down on the coffee table.  
“Good.”

Sherlock settles himself more comfortably, curling up on his side and drawing his knees up so that his feet are pressed flat against John's thigh. He falls asleep in seconds, leaving John to worry about him further. The case has been a long, strenuous one, evidently, so much so that Sherlock really isn't in any state to travel. He looks like he needs some sort of looking after, even if procuring nutrition isn't a problem.

 

Eating seems to be about the limit of Sherlock’s activity and once they’re done, he looks about ready to simply go back to sleep again. It takes very little persuasion, and instead simple physical manoeuvring, to get Sherlock off the couch and moving in the direction of the bedroom. There is only one bedroom, with a double bed, but John’s not about to complain. Not at a time like this, when he’d genuinely worry if Sherlock was actually out of his sight for any extended period of time. Somehow, they both manage to coordinate dressing for bed. Sherlock leaves his clothes in a heap on the floor and struggles into a dressing-gown that looks to be at least a size too big, before flopping down onto the bed. He falls onto his back, eyes closed, limbs twisted awkwardly, dressing-gown fabric crumpled up around his thighs. John’s gaze immediately falls on Sherlock’s pale legs, mottled by insect bites. John’s scrutiny seems to rouse Sherlock a little, and he makes a half-hearted attempted to sit up and reach for a tube of cream on the bedside table. About half way through the gesture he simply gives up and flops back down again with a sigh. John picks the tube up and discovers that it’s a preparation of one percent hydrocortisone, to offset the autoimmune response caused by insect bites.

“Sherlock?”  
“Mmm?”  
“I think we could do with putting some of this on you. It’ll help with the itching.”  
A soft sigh is the only response.  
“I need a verbalised response.”  
The question seems to wake Sherlock a little. “Why?”  
“Consent.”  
“’s medical...”  
“Yes, but this isn’t life-threatening, so I need your consent to treat you.”  
“Yes, doctor.”  
“Besides, I’m not putting my hands on another man’s thighs without his express say so.”

Sherlock smiles: a brief quirk of his lips, and makes a passing effort at waving a hand in John’s direction. John takes it as enough to qualify as assent. The insect bites are numerous enough that John wonders where on earth Sherlock’s actually been in the course of this case. Fortunately, they are only small, so John makes quick work of cleaning his hands with hand sanitizer before squeezing out a good dollop of hydrocortisone across his fingers and proceeding to rub it into Sherlock’s skin. The process is actually fairly quick but Sherlock is snoring by the time John works his way up to a knee anyway. Still, consent granted, he soldiers on, manipulating pliant limbs so that eventually Sherlock’s legs are covered with the medication. It’s only once his task is complete, and John is standing up again to go wash his hands, that he realises that not only have his manipulations left Sherlock dangerously close to exposed but also that he’ll have to manhandle him some more to get him under the covers. Of course, John is a military man, and a doctor, so an unexpected glimpse of scrotal sack isn’t particularly traumatising. Still, for the sake of Sherlock’s modesty at least, he gently tugs the fabric down to cover Sherlock up. No need for Sherlock to wake up and realise that John’s just had an eyeful.

Manhandling Sherlock under the covers proves to be less onerous than John had anticipated. Sherlock may be all long limbs and deadweight but he’s hardly heavy in John’s estimation. In fact, when John really looks at him, he isn’t sure that Sherlock is likely to be within a healthy weight range, currently, at all. It’s something that he makes a note to begin to address in the morning. Convenience food may be all well and good but a decent, cooked, meal or two will certainly help. He’ll have to find the nearest supermarket and come up with some meal ideas that won’t be overly complicated or, texture-wise, somewhat difficult to eat. John’s noticed in the past that Sherlock seems to have certain issues with texture from time to time, particularly with food, so something on the softer side, perhaps a stew of some description, seems like a good place to start. Climbing under the covers, John dismisses the thought of anything Iranian immediately, he doesn’t want to overwhelm Sherlock with too much red meat, Russian might be a better option but the flavouring might be a bit precarious for current circumstances, Egyptian on the other hand would be very light but again the touch of citrus might be a little too strong. The trail of thought follows John down into sleep and he wakes up, briefly, in the middle of the night, entirely surprised that he fell asleep in the first place, and quite convinced that he’s just had a nose full of decent Turkish cooking.

The following morning is surprisingly far from awkward. John wakes, on his back, with a long arm and leg thrown over him. He supposes that perhaps, just perhaps, there might be something more to it, some further dimension to develop in the friendship between them. Certainly, he’s never woken so relaxed or content in the tangle of his bed partner’s limbs before. It could be indicative of something, the potential of a possibility, or it could just mean that he’s slept in so many crammed spaces with little to no privacy from the men around him that he’s become accustomed to it. There have been no nightmares last night, no tension this morning. Perhaps then, it’s the familiarity of having a male bed partner that does it. The idea of another male body, another soldier to watch his back, sleeping beside him, that conveys safety and warmth and understanding. He falls asleep again easily, despite the sunlight filtering through the blinds, and this time he dreams quite distinctly of heat and sand and cardamom tea, and someone speaking softly in Dari.

**Author's Note:**

> John’s route takes him past Banting House Inn, where I started writing this last summer, which has, sadly, recently closed.  
> Dari is the Afghan dialect of Farsi and one of the official languages of Afghanistan.


End file.
